


Aided by Alcohol

by Edana_erised (Myriad_13)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Fluff, M/M, across all series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myriad_13/pseuds/Edana_erised
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments in Sherlock and John's life where alcohol has played a role in the shaping of their moments. </p>
<p>--//--</p>
<p>Written for the February johnlockchallenges for Tumblr user davejohnkat</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aided by Alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, there are snippets of moments in the johnlock dynamic where alcohol played a part. There's a part from s1, s2, s3, and then the last part is post-s3. 
> 
> I know I probably went overboard for the prompt and challenge, but I had so many ideas for drunken Sherlock and John. 
> 
> Prompt: “i'd love to see more drunk!johnlock, maybe a deleted scene from stag night or something?”. 
> 
> Not Brit-picked or Beta read :D

 

The first time John Watson was well and truly pissed, almost falling down drunk in his flatmate’s presence, was four days after the pool incident with Moriarty.

Sherlock heard him before he saw him, and frowned as he heard John’s dulcet tones as soon as his drunken flatmate had closed the front door to 221B. The sound of his inebriated singing reverberated up the stairwell and into their sitting room, and it alone was enough indicator of how far gone the doctor was.

“…its now or never…and I don’t wanna live foreveeeer! I just wanna live while I’m alive! My heart is like an open highway…s’like Frankie sssaid I did it my way! I just wanna live while I’m alive!”

Sherlock should have been horrifically disturbed. Both at the butchering of the song and John’s not so melodious voice. (The man really couldn’t sing while drunk. Sherlock would know, he heard John’s normal tones every morning when John had his shower). But he surprisingly didn’t mind. It distracted him from the burning out of his thoughts on Moriarty and where the Irish psychopath could have gone. He heard John stagger up the steps and come up on the landing just to sing the final line of the chorus.

“Cos it’s MY LIFE!”

This was followed by incessant giggling.

Sherlock allowed himself to smile. Ah, this was definitely going to be entertaining. He had never witnessed John drunk before. A wealth of new data was about to be revealed as soon as his flatmate came through the door. He mentally readied himself, fully prepared to note down everything. How dilated were his pupils? How often in speech did he slur? Was his proclivity towards curse words heightened or maintained?

John’s giggling tapered off as he opened the door into the kitchen, wandered through – not without bumping twice into the table, sending all of the flasks and beakers clinking like a scientific wind chime – to the sitting room where Sherlock was instantly scanning him for detail.

“Heeeey,” said John, giggling again when his flatmate rose a brow at him.

“Good evening,” Sherlock replied curtly.

“Why are there of you two on the sofa?” the shorter man asked.

Sherlock felt a quick flash of worry before John laughed again, coming over to sit next to him. He controlled the ingrained flinch at the stink of booze and the faint odour of cigarettes. Clearly, John had taken his drinks in the smokers area for once. Interesting. John had drunk mostly beer, but by the state of inebriation, it appeared he had gotten into the hard liquor as well.

“Jus’ kiddin’. Only one of you now,” John assured. “Watcha doin’?”

The resident genius felt the desire to record John like this. It was shaping up to be more fascinating than he thought. “I was attempting to sort out where Moriarty has gone and how soon he will target us again,” he explained.

John had propped his head on his hand, indigo eyes wide and warm on his own. He was still smiling, and Sherlock found that he could abandon the thought of his true arch enemy just to stare into the depths of those eyes. They were fascinating in the intensity of colour and the way John could communicate with solely his eyes and the muscles around them. They were the most telling part of John’s body language.

“Don’t worry mate. You’re the...hic…cleverest man I know. If anyone can find that bastard, you can,” John said. Sherlock leaned away. John had sounded…adoring? He felt ribbons of a feeling he couldn’t describe wrap around his newly rediscovered heart. He swallowed, hard, and shot up, leaving John to tumble down onto the couch with a snort and a laugh.

“Hey! Where are you going?” John called as Sherlock fled to the kitchen.

“Just making you some tea,” he replied. He shoved away whatever emotional conundrum his transport had freshly minted for him in favour of concentrating on the simple task. He started when he heard John clatter into a chair at the kitchen table.

“Wow. You’re making me tea. I want to remember this forever!”

He then laughed heartily, thumping his fist on the table. “Sherlock’s making tea! Quick, put it in the record books!” he tittered, his body shaking with the force of his laughter.

The detective let the sounds of John’s happiness wash over him. He wanted John to be happy like this. He was…he looked so carefree and young, an echo of the man he was before war. Sherlock felt those ribbons tighten again as he set the tea in front of his flatmate.

“I probably shouldn’t be laughing. We almost died a few days ago. I should still be pretty pissed off,” John wondered aloud.

“Probably the state of your intoxication,” Sherlock replied, taking a sip of his own tea.

“No it’s because we’re both mad,” John stated, appearing serious, until he broke into a fresh round of giggles.

Sherlock just smiled back. Yes. They were both unusual. And he wanted to keep John’s wonderful differences to himself.

* * *

They had both seen too much tonight.

Hallucinations of giant demon hounds, seeing Moriarty in place of Frankland, and an explosion blasting a man to smithereens because he’d rather die than bear to see his research taken away from him, for him to be brought to justice due to his experimentation with illegal drugs.

Sherlock had been the one to steal behind the Cross Keys bar and had taken a bottle of scotch, a bottle of Coke, and a couple of glasses before following a limping John up to their room.

They only lit one lamp, the one on Sherlock’s bedside table, unwittingly giving the room an intimate tone as they sat on the edges of their separate beds, facing each other. Wordlessly, Sherlock poured out several fingers of the caramel coloured drink into their glasses and topping it up with the sweet cola. John took his eagerly, ignoring the way his hand trembled.

Sherlock raised his. “To Henry. For the break in boredom. Hopefully his nightmares will leave him alone,” he pronounced.

“Hear hear,” John said, tipping the liquid down throat in one long, easy chug. “To Frankland. May that bastard rot in hell.”

“Agreed,” muttered Sherlock, polishing off the rest of his mix before pouring more.

They tossed down the next two scotch/cola mixes in silence, not looking at each other as they wrestled with their separate issues.

John abruptly barked out a laugh. “How much do you think we’ll need to drink to forget?” he asked.

“Not enough in this bottle,” Sherlock replied. He grimaced at the taste of straight scotch after the sweetness of the soft drink. “Our livers won’t be thanking us in the morning.”

“Oh please, I think the liver is the last thing I’m worrying about right now.” John grunted, flopping back onto his quilt covers and staring up at the crack in the ceiling. “I might have nightmares. I may be violent in them,” he cautioned.

“What helps?” asked Sherlock.

“Human contact, usually. Knowing there’s another person next to me. But I know you don’t go for that sort of thing. So…I don’t know, maybe brandy and milk, but we’ve already had a bit to drink-“

Before John could finish, Sherlock swept out of their room, face set and determined. Barely five minutes had gone past when he returned with two tall mugs, steam spiralling from the top in misty tendrils. The doctor blinked in surprise. It had to be said for Sherlock, that when the man was determined he delivered.

The warm porcelain was shoved into his hands and he curled his digits around the warmth gratefully. He noticed the detective taking a long sip with a shaking hand. “You too huh?” he murmured.

“I’m willing to see if your method is effective,” Sherlock said. He flicked his gaze up, his verdigris irises glowing in the dim light. “Also…if it would aid you sleeping, I don’t mind.”

“Don’t mind what?”

“Sitting or laying on your bed while you sleep. If it helps. I, of course, will not be sleeping tonight. I might as well support my friend,” Sherlock said quietly, carefully rising off his bed and sitting on John’s, putting a foot of space between them.

John gulped, took a swig of his brandied milk, and nodded, willing away the thrill that went down his spine at the thought he and Sherlock would be sharing a bed, however platonically. “Only if you want to. Not because you’re trying to apologise or something,” he said.

“If we were at Baker Street, I’d play the violin. I know you like it when I play well and that it increases the efficacy of your rest on the occasions I do. Think of this as a replacement violin,” the taller man elaborated. He stood and made for his bags, rummaging around for his pyjamas. He was about to enter the bathroom to change when he paused, and murmured, “I want to.”

John sighed, grateful. He shucked his clothes and changed into his own pyjamas while Sherlock finished in the bathroom. After completing their evening ablutions, John settled down in the bed, fully aware of the being sitting up against the headboard next to him. Sherlock was busying himself with a notebook, face serene even as his hand flew across the page frantically.

“Sleep. I don’t need it and you do,” assured Sherlock in an almost tender tone of voice.

Eased by the slow steady sound of his friend’s breathing, John drifted off into muted dreams of dogs and manic detectives running around town.

* * *

The stag night.

A cacophony of beer, shots, pubs and music, all the while the pair became more inebriated with each stop on Sherlock’s mental mind map of bars.

They were heading back to Baker Street, attempting to clear their heads slightly by walking through London’s nightlife, the fresh air bracing, and their heightened states giving way to a more rambunctious side to the duo.

Sherlock and John were leaning on each other, swaying slightly, Sherlock muttering something about ash with each step. John was bleary, but content. His world was a mess of golden streetlamps, old, familiar buildings and passing cars like watery blurs on the edge of his vision. Sherlock was solid and warm next to him, a pillar of support.

A giggling, one, if anything.

“Jooooohn,” Sherlock said teasingly, poking him in the side. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I don’t feel like solving crimes right now,” John said pre-emptively.

The pale face twisted into a scowl. “Don’t be daft. I’ve got a plan! Oh yes.”

“Enlighten me.”

Sherlock’s face lit up. “I know how to break into Speedy’s.” He stepped back, throwing his arms back with a flourish and nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. John just stared at him in consternation. “Eh…what does that have to do with anything? We’re not going to rob the place are we?”

“Noooo,” Sherlock singsonged. “We are serving some revenge! On behalf of the honour of Mrs. Hudson!” He rose his fist triumphantly towards the sky and looked eagerly towards John, willing him to be on board with the idea.

John was still confused. “Revenge for?” he pressed.

Sherlock’s scowl returned, wiping away the moment of intense triumph. He gave one of his patented ‘I deal with idiots daily’ sigh and grabbed John around the shoulders to steer them into a pathway that would take them behind the row of flats and Speedy’s cafe.

“I’ve been plotting for a wh…wh…a long time. Mr. Chatterjee lied to Mrs. Hudson about the other wives. He hurt her heart and he must pay,” Sherlock said fervently. He turned to John, grabbing his shoulders to hold him in place as he stared into his indigo eyes. “Help me. Please? We have the perfect opportunity. Just a little messing around with the property, not actually destroying much.”

John should have said no.

He possibly would have said no.

That is, if it hadn’t been for the sheer amount of alcohol consumed that night.

But Sherlock was before him, face close, his usual minty breath soured by the intake of his own drinking. His eyes were so manic, so alive, so present that John felt his resolve give way under the tidal wave of ‘fuck it, let’s do it.’ He nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

“For Hudders!” Sherlock proclaimed, sending them both into giggles.

Despite their inebriation, they managed to stealthily reach the cafe’s back door, which Sherlock managed to unlock within a minute of picking at it with the tiny set of lock picks he kept in an inner coat pocket. John kept a look out – which consisted of him slouching against the wall and lazily scanning the back laneway.

They crept in silently – taking care to disable the alarm, until they were in the kitchen.

“Well…what do ya wanna do?” John asked, peering around at the mostly clean service area, dim in the dark.

“Hmm…oohh,” Sherlock ejected, whirling around with his hands in their usual prayer pose beneath his nose. “Ahh. Hmmm….oooh let’s see. Hah!”

Twirling like a whirling dervish, he reached for the spice rack and tugged out various jars. “I’m going to replace the paprika with chilli powder, and the chilli with the ground saffron. Quick, John, do something. Get out all of the pots and pans and just lay them out everywhere, put them in odd spots,” he instructed, twisting the lids off the spice jars and laughing when paprika erupted in a plume from his exuberance.

“On it,” slurred the smaller man, crouching down – wobbling dangerously – and pulling open the cupboard doors, finding all manner of cooking equipment, dutifully pulling them all out in their stacks and leaving them on the floor. He couldn’t be bothered to lift them up any higher.

Sherlock noticed and pouted. “John, scatter! Scatter them!”

“They’re heavy,” John protested.

“Get the little ones then!” argued the drunken detective with a whine in his voice. It grated on John’s ears. Wincing, he picked up a few light baking sheets and small saucepans and went about placing them in the most inventive places he could imagine. A baking sheet was chucked behind a fridge, the saucepans were left at the front door of the cafe, pointing away from each other, and the other baking sheet was splattered with whipped cream – courtesy of Sherlock finding a full can of it in the coolroom – and strategically hidden underneath the cash register. If no one found it, it would reek within days.

Sherlock ended up spending most of time mischievously tearing apart the food stocks in the refrigeration unit.  He added more yeast to the small lump of dough in a silver bowl, played darts with a few half-rotten tomatoes against the wall, and mixed up all the fruit juices like he was an expert bartender making specialist cocktails. He thought he was being particularly clever in adding tomato juice to all of the orange juice.

He got John to help him scatter lettuce leaves everywhere. Both of them took particular glee in stomping on the small supply of brussel sprouts. And Sherlock, for his final act of juvenile style delinquency, went to the pantry and pulled out packets of flour and sugar, tipping them everywhere as they backed away, giggling like a pair of loons, coating the floor in a blanket of whiteness.

“I’d hate to be them in the morning!” John crowed.

“Good. I hope Mr. Chatter…chat…Mr. Liar has to clean it all up on his hands and knees tomorrow,” Sherlock spat venomously, but the sting was taken out by stumbling over his tongue. “Come on. We have to leave.”

They giggled as they relocked the back door, creeping out of the alleyway and circling around Baker Street a few times to ensure that people saw them away from Speedy’s.

They were about to wind their way up to Northumberland Street to visit Angelo’s when Sherlock halted in his tracks, lilting to the side and muttering, “Oh. Oh. Interesting.” 

“Hmm?” John grunted, actually looking forward to a bit of Angelo’s late night puttanesca.

“I’m sleepy,” Sherlock announced. “Can we go back home?”

John stuck his lower lip out in thought. He was a little hungry, but Sherlock was looking at him with wide, grey eyes, looking for all the world like a lost child. He shrugged. His food could wait. “Sure. Let’s go home. Play a game?” he suggested.

Sherlock beamed at him, slung an arm over his shoulders and directed them back to Baker Street. 

* * *

They had promised after the stag night never to get that drunk again. Promises like those were made to be broken.

It had been too much, lately, for John. He needed to be numb. To forget.

Sherlock had shot Magnussen to protect him, Mary and Mycroft.

Moriarty had come back.

Mary had their baby, Annabel Shirley Watson (the revealing of the name had been enough to send Sherlock into a catatonic state for over an hour), a week early. Which had at first been fine. Their baby girl was seemingly healthy. John was proud to have created such a wondrous, innocent being.

Sherlock and John, along with Mycroft and his cronies, and Lestrade and the Yard, had been searching for Moriarty to no avail. It had been tiring and exhausting, and John was on the thinnest edge of tension, caught between the differing demands of his life.

Then, Annabel had stopped breathing without explanation one night, seven weeks after her birth. SIDS.

Mary had left straight after their daughter’s funeral. It had been a cowardly way to leave John’s life – she had pronounced she was going to the shops and never returned. Most likely gone to create another new identity on another continent.

John was sick of grieving. He had been going through too much in the past month since Annabel’s death.

So he drank. He drank and drank until he passed out.

Sherlock found him at his house, half conscious and vomit pooled like a halo around his head, empty and broken bottles scattered around the lounge room. Photos were ripped, shredded, flung everywhere, chairs overturned, and fist-sized holes in the wall. Sherlock had said nothing, only gathered him up in his arms and brought him to the hospital. It was there, unfortunately sober and knowing that everything was too real, that John had drawn Sherlock into an embrace and sobbed into his shoulder. Unable to muster up the shame for his behaviour. Unable to care he was probably getting snot and tears all over his best friend’s fancy coat.

Sherlock had held him and stroked his hair, humming lowly through his chest. Not one snarky or falsely reassuring comment passed his lips.

When discharged, they didn’t even think about going back to John’s house. Baker Street was the place John needed to be – his home.

A few days after his discharge, John had gone out, bought more booze, brought it up to their flat and placed the bottles squarely on the table next to where his flatmate was examining a rare type of pollen through the microscope. When Sherlock had looked up worriedly at him, John announced, “After tonight, I’m never going to have more than one beer at a time ever again. But…there’s something I want to lower my inhibitions for, something I want to blame on a substance of some kind.” He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the rejection. “But only if you are amenable…if you get what I mean.”

Judging by the heat darkening Sherlock’s eyes, he knew exactly what John was implying. It honestly shouldn’t have been hard to deduce – the outline of a lube tube and a packet of condoms was present through John’s jacket pockets.

“Are you ashamed of your attraction to me? Is that what the alcohol is for?” Sherlock questioned lowly, emotionally blank.

“No. I’m fucking scared of pushing you away and ruining everything. I thought it might help. To sort of soften the edges of…well…” he hesitated before plunging on. “Not that I want to forget you. I just want to forget that I feel this desperate and all this shitty stuff. Because I’m asking you if you can allow me to be selfish and just take. I want to take. I want you, and I want to make tonight blurred so that if _we_ were ever to happen, then I couldn’t remember how badly the first time went.”

“You are such a confusing man,” Sherlock said reverently, smiling a little, and placed his microscope off to the side. “No holding back?”

“None. Anything you want, however far you want to go. I’m giving you control. Just get me drunk first.”

Permission given.

They both began drinking themselves stupid after their dinner – John considerably more than Sherlock, who was alert to keep full control of his mental faculties just in case. Once John felt like he couldn't care if he was racing naked through the streets of London, they began.

A chaste, inquisitive peck turned into a gentle exploration of mouths. Slow, sloppy kisses on the sofa turned into hard kisses while being pressed against the wall, the shorter man gasping, “Yes, _God yes!”_ when Sherlock’s frame loomed before him, those long, delicate fingers divesting him of his shirt in the hallway before his bedroom door, tossing it behind him on the ground. Before long he was falling back onto Sherlock’s bed, completely naked and not knowing or caring how easily the other man had disrobed him. Sherlock was gazing at him with hungry eyes, sliding off his own clothes and joining him in a tangle of limbs, pale against a more tanned shade. Time passed in measures of kissing, erotic moans and hesitant touching turning into sensual caresses with lube slicked fingers.

John was just drunk enough that he swore he heard his blood sing joyously when their lower halves slotted together, Sherlock’s pelvis pressed against his intimately, their lengths sliding against each other, sweat, slick, friction, _oh!_

He bucked and writhed when a warm mouth closed over a nipple, laving it with a raspy tongue. He gripped his lover’s shoulders tight, moaning as those lips traversed his upper half while their hips rocked together.

He came all too soon with a strangled groan and a shudder, his body twitching. He could only watch, astonished, as Sherlock lost it above him, his face flushed and eyes bright. John couldn’t resist sliding his fingers through that luxuriously soft curly hair as Sherlock recovered from his own orgasm. He was filled with so much feeling, like he had just drunk a litre of soup so his insides were all toasty. They were still getting their breath back even as they rolled onto their sides, drunkenly cuddling together.

It might have been the drink, it might have been all the hormones kicking in through his system, but John realised that this is all he wanted. His world could burn for all he cared, as long as he had Sherlock by his side in every way possible.

He didn’t even realise it when three words slipped past his steel strength self-control.

\--///--

John woke up with the hangover from hell.

And remembering with perfect clarity the night before.

“Aw fuck,” he muttered, bolting out of Sherlock’s bed and racing for the bathroom. He made it there just in time to chuck up in the toilet, thankful he hadn’t missed.

Once he had put himself to rights, he stared at himself in the mirror, and cursed himself for saying what he did last night. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to know. He was never meant to know – not unless they decided to try for a relationship. The possibility of which was now shrinking to the size of an atom.  

At least he had last night to sustain him – the memory of that gorgeous pale skin, the way Sherlock had moved, the way he tasted, the way he kissed…

John resisted banging his head against the wall. He knew it would only hurt his aching head more.

He stumbled out into the kitchen after putting on his dressing gown and noticed the conspicuous absence of Sherlock.

His heart sank. He fucked up. Majorly.

Reaching for the fridge, a piece of white paper taped to the front caught his eyes. Sherlock’s handwriting. He cursed himself, knowing this was it. Sherlock was going to demand that he should leave.

He was pleasantly surprised and elated by what the note contained.

> _Dearest John,_
> 
> _You didn’t have to get drunk to admit you wanted something deeper and more meaningful than our friendship. Idiot. You could have just asked (isn’t that something you always tell me to do?). While I understand the circumstances are not ideal, given the events of the past three months, I am willing to be patient – and you know just how impatient and ridiculous I am – until you are ready._
> 
> _I want what you want too._
> 
> _I have wanted it for a long time._
> 
> _Please don’t regret last night. It wasn’t ideal, it was messy, and you are quite the salacious drunk when in the mood. But it was you. It was me, and we were together._
> 
> _I am giving you your space solely because I know that you’ll feel exactly like we did when we woke up after the stag night. I calculate you vomiting with a 76.9% certainty. There’s iced ginger tea in the fridge, as well as your favourite blackberry jam, and there’s fresh bread in the cupboard._
> 
> _At the time of reading this I will most likely be at Lloyd’s bookshop. Come to the cafe nearby whenever you’re ready and not stumbling over your own two feet._
> 
> _-SH_
> 
> _P.s – don’t eat anything out of the green Tupperware container._

John found he was smiling so hard his muscles hurt. He felt like a teenager with confirmation that their crush fancied them too. Relief flooded him and he fumbled for a chair to sink into. He continued to gaze happily at the printed words of validation. It was finally happening.

After so much time repressing his feelings, covering them up, loving other people and hurting and wishing and pining and feeling like he could never attain it, Sherlock had finally given him the greatest gift of all.

Hope.

* * *

A lot could happen in four months of official dating.

Capturing the most prominent criminal psychopath in London history being one such event. Moriarty had been livid that he had been so easily captured – easy from his viewpoint. The whole operation had taken a good month to put into place and not arouse Moriarty’s suspicions in that time. In the end, they had recorded a conversation between him and Jode Roman, one of his network that had slipped past Sherlock’s radar when he had done his worldwide purge of the network. It had been the final nail in Moriarty’s coffin (so to speak).

Life had gone back to normal – mostly –after that.

Normal according to Sherlock and John, at least.

A serial killer who enjoyed plaiting his victim’s hair, a couple of ingenious bank robberies and the everyday garden variety murder. Life had begun to balance out for the both of them.

Their ‘dates’ consisted mostly of eating dinner at Angelo’s accompanied by a night of watching crap telly, which they ignored as they made out with a slow, burning fire of want igniting between them. Occasionally Sherlock coaxed John out to a science museum or exhibition at the state library, and John did the same to Sherlock for films. They hadn’t acted on their more intimate desires yet – on Sherlock’s insistence. He had emphasised the need to be accustomed to their everyday life before embarking on the final step of intimacy once more.

All contact had been limited to kissing and cuddling.

To John’s delight, he had found Sherlock was quite the cuddler when he was off a case, often pouting until John came over to him and initiated some sort of contact.

One night, the balance of their relationship shifted once more.

It had been the day after a weeklong chase for a kidnapper, their adrenaline high cooled by the time the sun had risen the following morning. Sherlock was preparing a surprise for John when he came back from debriefing his version of events of the case with Lestrade. It was seldom often he cooked anything, but he knew the timing was right. The perfect timing of a chemical reaction when elements broke down and reformed into something better, greater.

He smiled. He knew the precise shape John’s mouth would take in his astonishment.

Sure enough, just as he was setting out the plates of fillet mignon on their (freshly scrubbed) table, John returned. He had taken barely a step into their kitchen when his mouth dropped open.

“This was you?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied smugly.

Precise shape had been predicted correctly.

John gazed at him with naked wonder in his eyes. “What’s this for?” he asked. He arched a sceptic eyebrow. “You haven’t left a cow’s leg in the bathtub again have you?”

“No. This is for you. Or, more specifically, for us. Fuel. For the night ahead. I’ve prepared everything,” Sherlock said.

John’s expression melted into fierce hunger, and not just for the food. “Look at you being all romantic. Makes a man feel special,” he murmured in amazement, licking his lips.

“No.”

“Huh?”

Sherlock pointed down at the perfectly made up plates stubbornly. “We are not going to skip dinner. I did all this tedious hard work just for build up and we are not going to waste it no matter how demanding our libidos are.”

John laughed, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that made Sherlock’s heart beat three times louder in his chest. To distract himself, he reached out to pour the wine on the bench. A warm hand covered his just as he lifted the dark bottle.

“I don’t think we’ll need that tonight. Do you?”

Sherlock could only beam at him in reply. 


End file.
